Red Shirt
by Maira the Panda
Summary: The knock was expected. The visitor was not. Nor was what she brought with her. T for violence and swearing. New character.
1. Chapter 1: Knock

Chapter 1

The knock was expected.

"Come in, Mozzie," Neal Caffrey called, his back to the door as he read from a large atlas of New York.

The door creaked as it opened. That, however, was not what attracted the young man's attention. The tread walking into the room was far too light to belong to his friend. He turned.

"You're not Mozzie." His visitor was, in fact, a woman. Neal's age and a little shorter than he, she wore her dark brown hair tied back loosely. Her clothes were cheap and ill-fitting, probably due to the fact that they were, for the most part, men's clothes. The too-large black carpenter's jeans were held up by a purple silk scarf. Her t-shirt was tucked in, but wrinkled. It was dark maroon and decorated with pale curving lines.

"Very astute." Her voice was not unusual. It was the accent that attracted attention. The girl had one heck of an Australian accent. "Mozzie's busy. He sent me."

She slung the cotton bag in her hand up onto the table. It landed with a soft _thunk_, like a soft object wrapped in protective coverings. Neal glanced at it before turning his attention back to the girl.

"And you would be?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Molly Jay. And you would be?" She shrugged her name as if it was obvious.

"What, Moz didn't tell you who you were going off to meet?"

" 'Course he didn't. I'm his red-shirt, get it?" Molly flicked the edge of her shirt with a thumb before thumping down on the sofa opposite. "So who are ya?"

"Neal Caffrey." He held out his hand to shake. It was too late. Molly had been distracted by the atlas on the low coffee table.

"New York. Greenwich Village, yeah?" She pronounced the name correctly, 'Gren-itch'.

"Yeah. Trying to find a hiding place for a felon." After the FBI knocked in the door on a drug deal last night, the man they were looking for took off. After a three-block chase, the fugitive turned a corner and disappeared.

"A hiding place?" Molly leaned in closer, seeming to be looking for something. "You involved in the, uh, FBI and Hernandez last night? Heard about that." She tapped the map. "Y'want this place. 78½ West 10th. If memory serves me right, he went running through around 1:30."

"78 and a half? The Four Leaf?" Ah, memories. The last time Neal had been there, it was a relatively lawful bar run by an Irishman and his wife. Molly scoffed.

"Baird hasn't run the place in three years. It's the Nine Lives now. Anything-goes kind of place. Eileen- his kid- she's still in on it, but she spends most of her time in the storeroom." Neal smirked, ready to make one of his normal, innuendo-laden comments. Molly glared at him from the map, pointing a finger. "Don't even."

"What makes you think I was going to say something inappropriate?" He asked over her next 'Don't'. The question gave her pause. Molly shook her head.

"Mozzie… warned me," she claimed weakly. She leaned back on the couch. "So, what do you want to know?"

"Why didn't you go to the FBI with this, if you knew about everything that went on?" It was Neal's turn to lean in, elbows resting on his knees.

She sighed, thumping her head down on the back of the couch. "I'm a ghost. I don't have anything to show I _exist_, American or otherwise. They'd think I was lying, was a terrorist, some stupid kid. Not having an identity is a bad way to show you're being serious."

Neal could see that happening. "Still… "Why? Why don't you have any documents, even for a fake identity?" She shrugged, not looking up.

"Pick a reason. Don't have the resources, don't have the time, don't give a crap. I got looks from just about anywhere, and I can imitate any accent I feel like. Except Asian. It just don't sound right." Molly wrinkled her nose. "Makes me sound like some bloody Indian."

"Mozzie didn't send you, did he?" Mozzie wouldn't employ someone who'd bolt if the police started sniffing around. Not an illegal immigrant, either.

"Not per se. He was going to deliver the bag himself. I am his errand girl, not lying about that. He's told me about you, and I wanted to…" She paused. "Call me patriotic. Closest thing to going to the police."

Neal stood, done with the important questions. "So, what's Mozzie sending me now?" He hefted the bag, meaning it as a rhetorical question.

"One flash drive, 2 gigabites. Two disposable mobiles, worth about 25 bucks each. A striped tie with a note to pass it on to someone named 'Special Agent Burke' with his regards. Oh, and some groceries. Mozzie doesn't think you eat enough vegetables." The con man glanced over at Molly, who hadn't moved. She rolled her head to look at him. "Was I not supposed to answer that question?"

"Not really." He sat back down. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"I bartend nights at the Nine Lives. Hernandez comes dashing in around one thirty. Eileen hides him in the back for an hour, then he jets. Didn't even try to look down my shirt like he usually does."

"You keep calling him Hernandez. Do you know his name?" Neal had to resist rolling his eyes at himself. God, he sounded like Peter.

"His working name is Juan Hernandez. His real name is Michael Juanito. He's a Spanish drug importer. Has far too many aliases for my taste, even more than you." Molly sat back up, smiling a little.

"How do you know how many aliases I have?" Molly just grinned wider, obviously not willing to answer the question. "Fine. How do you think I'm going to give this information to the FBI?"

She blinked, frowning. "Bugger. I really didn't think that one through, did I? Suppose..."

Author's Notes: Hello there, reader. I'm Maira. This is my first ever! White Collar story. I hope you like it.

With every chapter, I'm going to have a trivia question. Send me a message with the correct answer and I'll give you a preview of the next chapter. Today's question:

In the episode 'THREADS', what color was the dress Ghovat wanted?

Oh, one more thing- you can see a picture of Molly at http:// www dot imdb dot com slash media slash rm2741935360 slash nm0221043


	2. Chapter 2: Bang

Chapter 2

The envelope landed on its edge and almost flipped off the desk.

"It's for you." Special Agent Peter Burke picked up the letter Neal Caffrey had thrown at him and looked at it blankly.

"What is it?" He asked. Neal shrugged, taking off his hat.

"How am I supposed to know? Somebody slipped a letter addressed to you under June's door last night, so, logically, I give it to you."

There was the best part of Molly's plan- none of it was a lie. Rather than a rhetorical question, it was a real question. It wasn't Neal's fault if Peter didn't realize that. So what if he called her 'somebody' rather than using her name? Yes, the letter was slipped under June's front door at night, right after Molly wrote it in Neal's living room and slipped it back after she left. Absolutely, positively true.

Peter read the handwritten missive aloud.

"Dear Sir,

The felon you chased from the drug deal on West 11th Street goes by the working name of Juan Hernandez. His real name is Michael Juanito. He is a Spanish immigrant. He has a Green Card in his real name and an Interpol record under his pseudonym. He will be at 78½ West 10th Street, also known as the underground bar The Nine Lives, at ten o'clock every night for the next two weeks. I would advise more caution than you used two days ago. The management would not be happy with having their door knocked down. In any case, it's never locked.

Sincerely,

An Informant."

He did not read the post-script out loud:

"P.S; You do not give Neal Caffrey the credit he deserves. He is far more honest than you would believe, even if not by your standards."

"Interesting. Did you know about all this?" The FBI agent waved the letter in Neal's general direction.

"Nope. I'm just the messenger." He grinned.

"Drop the act, Neal. Who is it, 'Mr. Haversham'?" Peter demanded. Neal shook his head.

"Not him. Different friend. But they're very trustworthy," he promised.

"If they're so trustworthy, why didn't they come to the FBI with this, rather than all the smoke and dagger?" Neal stopped grinning. His reply was less joking.

"They're a ghost. You ever heard the term?" Peter shook his head. "It means that she's an illegal immigrant. She's had the records in her home country destroyed, and there's no trace of her here or there. Not having an identity is a bad way to show you're being serious," he quoted.

"So you've finally found a girl, have you?" Burke teased. Neal looked insulted.

"Of course not! I just-" The con man stopped talking before he admitted that he'd only met her last night. "She works for the friend you mentioned," he explained more slowly. "So, are you going to follow up?"

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

_The bar's always so dark. But the lights behind the bottles are nice. Hernandez is sitting over there, in the corner. Girl on his elbow, drugs in his hand. Remember his proclamation- "You want it, I got it. I got everything." in his cocky accent._

_Neal said the FBI are planning to come tomorrow. Neal… I almost miss an order, thinking about him._

_The door goes down. I told them it wasn't locked. It would be bad for business. Everyone screams. I recognize the man in front as Peter Burke._

_Hernandez doesn't run. I do. Stupid. But I can't get caught. They wouldn't understand. I hop the bar, dash for the back door, the back alley. I grab my wallet from the table beside the door as I rush past. No, stupid, leave it. Too late._

"_FBI! Stop!"_

_I don't stop. Two follow me. The pavement is wet._

"_Drop your weapon!" Burke, and someone else- police, I think. I can tell that it's Burke. I've seen him myself. Bastard. I can't believe what he's done with Neal. Neal…_

_I look over my shoulder. I want to tell if he's there. I almost fall. I swing out my arm, my arm with the wallet, and while I do I'm cursing myself. Moron. Idiot. Klutz. It's going to look like you have a-_

_Gun. Like a popgun, only a hundred times, a thousand times louder, and then the noise is pain. It hits my shoulder. I spin with the impact. I take the hit, use it to turn the corner._

_The footsteps behind me fade. I'm too fast. Or am I? So much blood. I wonder if they'd find my old SAFE kit and match it to who I used to be._

_Neal…_

"_Neal…"_

_

* * *

  
_

Question: In the episode "FLIP OF THE COIN", what was the newswoman's first name? Spelling doesn't make a difference.

A/N: This chapter took a lot of courage to put up. Please don't flame me.

I've already written out the whole thing, and I've been reading through it. Recently, I've realized that… I've written an alternative Kate. I hate Kate so much, so I shoot Molly. Peter is Kate's captor (maybe), so he shoots Molly. I want to know who Kate's enemy is, so I write one for Molly. Neal is wrapped up- whoops, too far. Heh. Forget that last bit.

Once more, please no flamin'. It's a sudden plot change in the second chapter, and even I'm not fond of it. But a lot of the story revolves around it. Sorry.


	3. Chapter 3: Run

Chapter 3

It wasn't the window opening. It wasn't the thud when she hit the floor. Her voice, that's what woke Caffrey up.

"Neal…"

He thought he was still dreaming. Still dreaming about her… but why? Why was her voice so hoarse? Why…

He flicked on the light by his bed. He was not expecting the blood. He was not expecting to see Molly lying in a heap on the floor in front of the window.

"Neal…" she whispered again, quieter. Her Australian accent was gone, replaced with American.

"Oh, my God," he said blankly, kneeling beside her. "Molly, what-"

"Shot. FBI came early. Your _friend_," she spat, coughing. "Listen." Neal had to lean in to hear her whispered instructions. "Deli, three blocks west. On corner. Know it?" She didn't wait for an answer. It didn't matter. He knew it. "Second floor. Knock as hard as you can. Tell Cara what happened."

"But-" Molly was bleeding so much. Her shirt was soaked. There was the beginning of a puddle on the floor. He had to stop it, or something. What if she bled out while he was gone? What if this Cara didn't believe him? What if-

"No buts, Neal Caffrey. I promise-" she hacked, her body spasming "-not to die while you're gone."

The promise worried him. Was she serious? He caught her weak grin. Morbid humor.

"Just go, please?"

Neal ran.

He had worked late into the night at the FBI building. How had he missed the preparations? How had he missed Peter leaving?

One block.

He had been buried in paperwork, digging through files for more on Hernandez/Juanito. He hadn't found anything. No aliases they missed. No associates that hadn't already been found. It had been wasted time.

Two blocks.

He caught a cab. He'd been so tired, he didn't notice Peter had left. If he had, Neal would have just thought he went home early. More like went home late, really.

Two and half.

He had fallen into bed still dressed. He could see the lights of the deli. The light was red for him. He ran through, dodging a cab. The iron steps rang under his shoes.

The door opened after three banging knocks.

"Whaddayawan?" the woman croaked. Her short blonde hair stuck up on one side, and her clothes were rumpled.

"Molly sent me," Neal panted. "She's shot."

Cara shook her head. "Stupid, heroic girl," she muttered, turning away. "How bad?"

"I-I don't know. There's a lot of blood. She ran from the Village to m- to three blocks away from here." The doctor nodded, grabbing a bag off the top shelf of a bookcase.

They ran. Cara locked the door behind her. She was fast. They were pounding up the stairs within minutes.

Molly hadn't moved. For a moment, Neal thought she was dead. She looked like a pile of bloody rags until she groaned.

"Ow." She tried weakly to shield her eyes from the overhead light. Her accent was back. "What's-" Cara hushed her.

"I need water and a washcloth," Cara ordered over her shoulder. Neal could hear her whispering to Molly as he hurried away.

"-not a word," he caught. The doctor looked at Neal inscrutably as she took the bowl and towel. "You may not want to watch this," she said finally.

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

The doctor had blood on her hands when she came out. Her hair was no longer sticking up.

"What happened?" Neal handed her a clean cloth.

"The bullet hit her shoulder and skidded off her scapula. I got it out, and there's no major damage. She'll be fine." Cara wiped her hands carefully. "So, you're the famous Neal Caffrey?"

"I guess so. Molly tell you that?" Neal forced a grin.

"She'll be fine, Mr. Caffrey. Moll just has a tendency to talk freely rather than scream in pain." The doctor picked her bag up. "I sedated her. I'll be back in half an hour. She'll probably wake up in fifteen minutes or so."

"What should I do?" Neal asked. Cara made a face.

"Just… reassure her," she suggested, walking toward the door.

"Of what?"

"Um, reality." She slipped out the door.

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

Molly was lying on her back on the kitchen table. Her breathing was faint, but steady.

Her blouse was ripped. Neal could see the strap of her black sports bra on her right shoulder. He pulled a chair out to sit next to the table.

Molly Jay. Obviously a fake name. And judging from the way she lost her accent after she was shot, she wasn't really Australian, either.

She seemed… familiar. Like he knew her from somewhere. But she wasn't a fellow thief. She wasn't a victim. So who?

Her claim that Mozzie warned her about his comments- that was weak. Mozzie didn't mind his jokes, either. So they must have met at some point.

She had commented that Hernandez had more aliases than he did. How would she have known? He'd never told anyone all of his names, not even Kate.

She called herself Moz's 'red shirt'. Mozzie didn't like Star Trek. He wouldn't have called her that. Which meant that she was the one that came up with it. She knew Star Trek.

He used to watch Star Trek. Did that make it a hint? Or was he reading into it too deeply?

She came to Neal instead of Mozzie when she was shot. That had to say something. She trusted him, or she had.

She came to him of her own accord with the information on Hernandez. More trust. And for all he knew, Mozzie might not have told her about the FBI. Which meant she could have been watching him.

She knew Peter Burke when she saw him in the half-light of a bar and a back alley. Maybe even just by his voice. So she had seen him, as well. Maybe an arrest. No, probably not an arrest. Had she been watching Burke, too?

She looked familiar. But-

Molly stirred, opened one eye.

"Where am I?" she mumbled.

"My place." Neal stretched. He hadn't moved in the fifteen minutes it took her to wake up.

"What happened?" Molly turned her head to look at him blearily.

"You tell me." He crossed his arms. She shook her head, pushed herself up on her good elbow. When she looked back, the drowsiness was gone from her voice and face.

"Before I do, what conclusions have you jumped to already?"

"The only conclusion I've come to, is that you're not really Australian. So drop the accent, 'Molly'." Molly laughed, a bark of humor.

"Molly really is my name, Neal," she assured him in her American accent. "Just not the right last name."

"Who are you, then?"

"An old friend. I'd tell you, but-" Molly shrugged "-force of habit, I'm afraid."

"What happened at the bar?"

"The FBI came a day early for Hernandez. I ran. Your buddy Burke chased me. He shot me. I came here."

"Why here?" She shrugged one shoulder.

"You're the first person I thought of."

"I know you're not an immigrant. Are you a ghost at all?"

"To the best of my abilities and those of a hospital administrator I bribed. As far as I know, I didn't miss anything."

"So you won't tell me who you are today. Who _were_ you?" Neal finally asked. Molly smiled faintly.

"I knew you were a bright one since the first day I saw you."

* * *

Question: In the season finale "FREE FALL", what did Neal use as glue in prison? (I found it a wonderful detail.)


	4. Chapter 4: Morning

Chapter 4

(I am cruel and therefore am skipping the explanation! Muahahaha. Figure it out yourselves.)

Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI was expecting to see Neal when he walked in. Not a woman wearing the shirt he remembered Neal in yesterday.

"Uh-" was all he got out before he froze up. The shirt was all she was wearing.

"Good morning, Special Agent Peter Burke," she said softly. Her long hair was loose, and he could see the strap of a sling. She had her back to him, working on something at the counter. "Neal's downstairs, pilfering June's eggs. He claimed he'd be right back, although he said that five minutes ago."

She moved over to the coffeemaker and flipped it open.

"Um, how did you know who I am?" he finally asked. The young woman laughed as she tucked a filter into the coffeemaker.

"June is out of town. Neal isn't wearing shoes, and even if he put some on, you don't walk like he does." She opened the can of coffee.

"The man I've been told you know as Mr. Haversham never gets up this early." She dropped a scoop into the coffeemaker.

"A random person wouldn't just walk in off the street." She added water.

"Therefore, you're either an assassin, or Special Agent Burke." She snapped the lid shut.

"As you haven't tried to kill me yet-" She pressed a button and the coffeemaker turned on "- you must be the _legendary_ Peter Burke." She turned around. "I thought you'd be taller," she admitted, cocking her head to the side.

"I'm sorry. Who're you?" Peter forced a smile through his genuine puzzlement. Who was this woman, in Neal's place, wearing Neal's shirt, and talking casually about assassins? She leaned against the counter, placing her good right arm on her hip, smiling. Smiling the way that Neal constantly smiled.

"I'm insulted. You don't remember me?" She kept smiling, but her eyes were hard. "You'd think that-"

"Molly." Neal interrupted from the door. His hands were full of eggs. "I see you've met Peter Burke."

Molly dropped the pose, taking two of the eggs. "Uh, yeah. I have." She looked at the two men, setting the eggs down. "I'm going to go and… Let you two talk." Quietly, she stepped out, closing the door behind her.

"Neal, who the hell is she?" Peter blurted out.

"Calm down, Peter. She's a friend," Neal tried to assure him.

"She guessed from the way I walked that I was either me or an assassin! An assassin!"

"She has good reason to be at least a little bit paranoid." Neal picked up one of the eggs, playing with it. That was unusual. It wasn't like him to fidget.

"Thinking someone's either an FBI agent or a paid killer is a _little_ bit paranoid?"

"Someone burned down her apartment building last week, Peter. And from other things she's said, I think she's being chased." Peter threw his hands up in the air.

"I'm not even going to ask!" he exclaimed.

"Good idea," Neal muttered.

"What was she doing here?" Burke asked after a short and awkward silence.

"Spending the night," the con man replied innocently. He looked up to Peter's shocked look. "What? She got shot last night, Peter. Molly came to me for help."

"Why didn't she go to a hospital?"

"She's… the girl I told you about. The one that gave me the letter. Actually, she told me all that first, then she wrote the letter." Neal put the egg down and leaned against the counter.

"You- she- what?" the agent sputtered. This was getting more and more confusing by the minute.

"She's the girl-"

"I got that part! I mean, what- what's going on?"

"I told you, she was shot-"

"Between the two of you. You don't trust _anyone_ enough to let them stay the night," Peter accused. "You don't even trust me that much!"

Neal looked embarrassed under his grin. "It's complicated, Peter. You wouldn't understand."

"Damn straight I wouldn't!" he snapped.

"Look, Peter…" Neal sighed, dropping his smile. He wasn't happy to be talking about this. "I've known her for a long time. She knows just about everything about me, even more than you do. And she's never said a word to anyone. Which, no offense, was the opposite of your job. So, yeah, I trust her even more than you."

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

Peter left. Neal made eggs. Molly didn't eat, but drank an impressive amount of coffee.

They didn't say anything important. Not about last night, not about the FBI, not about the way Molly had been standing in the hallway, looking vaguely shocked.

Peter came back an hour later. Neal went to get dressed. Molly made to disappear again.

"No, wait." Burke gestured for her to come back. Neal had mentioned Peter's embarrassment at her clothes (or lack thereof), so she had changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that Cara had dropped off. "I'm sorry for barging in," he admitted.

Molly smiled crookedly. "It's all right, Special Agent Burke. You have more of a right to be here than I do."

"Uh, Neal told me someone shot you. Do you…" He paused. "Want to tell me what happened?"

"Promise not to arrest me?" There was a grin in her eyes, so he nodded. "_You_ shot me, Special Agent Burke."

"You were the bartender." She nodded, so Peter spluttered on. "But it wasn't me. It was the policeman. And you had a weapon." She did. He knew it. She had dropped the wallet and the knife after…

"I had a knife, yes. It was in my bag. But I didn't have a gun. And I can't throw knives, although you didn't know that. Shall we change the subject?

"If my knowledge of how the FBI acts is correct, then you pulled all the files you could on the Nine Lives before you even got the search warrant. If I've been successful, the only problem you encountered was that you had absolutely nothing on the bartender."

"Well, n-not nothing," Peter countered, glad to be done with accusations. "We have pictures of you, and we know you're paid in cash."

"What, not even a nickname?" Molly grinned widely and held out her good hand. "I'm Molly Jay. And no, that's not my real last name."

"I guess you already know who I am." They shook.

When Neal came out, he found the two chatting about FBI surveillance. Molly glanced up first.

"Nice hat." was her only comment. Peter groaned.

"Don't encourage him."

Molly grabbed a bag and made for the door.

"Where are you going?" Neal asked. She turned around and walked backwards slowly.

"Just… out. I have stuff to check on. I'll see you… later." She smiled quickly, slung the bag awkwardly over her good shoulder and slipped out.

"She's an evasive one," Peter said knowledgably. Neal just looked at him. "What? What?"

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

Neal expected 'later' to be when he got back from the FBI. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' to be that evening. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' to be midnight. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' to be that morning. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' to be Friday, a day away. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' to be Saturday, just tomorrow. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' to be Sunday, before the work week started. She wasn't back.

Neal expected 'later' wasn't coming at all.

* * *

Question: In the episode "THE PORTRAIT", Grandmother Julianna used a laced bottle of whiskey, a little black dress, and what?


	5. Chapter 5: Tracker

Chapter 5

She climbed the trellis again. Only this time it was a little less impressive.

"I have a front door, you know," Neal commented when she vaulted over the short wall. It was late Tuesday night, and her outline was black against the lights of the skyline.

"Front doors are for boring people." Molly grinned, stepping into the light.

"Trellises are for burglars," he countered.

"Lie and cheat I may, but I have never burgled." She walked closer, then brushed past him. "I have a surprise for you."

"Oh?" Neal followed her in, holding his wine glass in one hand. She slung the backpack off the shoulder it dangled from and onto the table.

"Open it!" Molly prompted when he just stared at it. There was a brown paper parcel lying on top of the various equipment inside. He tried not to look too hard at the lockpick set, the binder of loose-leaf legal sheets, the notebook that was open just enough to see what looked like a sketch of a vault.

"What is it?" He moved to shake it, but the panicked look on her face stopped him. "Okay, something fragile."

He tore off the paper to reveal… a cardboard box. His confused pause made Molly laugh as she handed him a pair of kitchen shears. Inside the box was…

"Another tracker? And a scanner from a grocery store?" Molly was working very hard not to fall off her chair.

"Of- course- not," she gasped. She started to calm down for a minute, but collapsed into a fit of giggles when she looked at Neal's completely puzzled face.

"Come on, what the heck is this? Is this a joke?" She shook her head, and broke off her laughter with a yawn.

"I figured it out before Mozzie did." Molly chuckled. "Gimme."

The new tracker was off, powered down. She snagged Neal's leg, dumping him into the chair opposite with a protest. Holding the new tracker next to the old one, she paused.

"Burke isn't going to be coming in, is he?" she asked warily. Neal shook his head. Peter had already come and gone. "All right. So this-" she tapped the tracker on Neal's leg "-is serial number 12287653 in the FBI database. It's assigned to you." She held up the new tracker. "This comes directly from the manufacturer. It has no memory, no serial number, nothing." She nodded at the scanner. "That is something very special. Care to do the honors?"

Neal leaned forward and scanned both trackers as she gestured. After a second, the green light flicked off… and flicked back on in the new one. There was a click, and the newly dead tracker dropped off, unlocked.

"And there's no signal?"

"Not a thing. Doesn't even flicker."

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

"I thought it was a gift."

"It's not."

"If it wasn't a gift, what was it?"

"It was a surprise, Neal, and now I'm taking it with me."

Neal pouted. Molly didn't even look at him. That was a pity. Neal thought it was one of his best. It would have even worked on Peter.

"Don't bother, Neal." Molly stuffed the box back in her backpack. He dropped the pout.

"Don't you trust me?"

"With this, not the least bit. You'd go leaping off after Kate without a second thought. So, no, I'm not letting you keep it."

"What about-"

They both jumped at the knock. Molly opened the door to Peter. The FBI agent looked at the nervous pair.

"What's going on in here?" he finally asked.

"Nothing." Neal and Molly replied at the same time.

"Right," Peter said skeptically. "Well, it's good to see you again, Molly."

"You, too, Peter." Molly smiled brightly for Burke. "I think it's past time for me to be gone. See you soon, Neal?"

"Is 'soon' less time than 'later'?" he teased. Molly blushed and slipped out the door to the roof.

"She spend the night again?" Peter tried to ask casually. Neal gave him a pitying glance. "What?"

"You've got a filthy imagination. She got back around midnight. We talked, and then she crashed on my couch." Mostly true.

"Not filthy, just suspicious."

"Uh-huh."

.oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo. .oO0Oo.

'Soon' turned out to be 'after work'.

Molly was asleep at the table, surrounded by what looked like the papers from the binder Neal had seen last night. Her hair was up in a loose ponytail. There was one sheet that had fallen in front of her face, and it fluttered gently with the rhythm of her breathing. Her dark blue sling was off, lying next to her head.

At random, Neal picked up a sheet to look at it. It was headed "NC Trgt Equa. V.3.8.7" The entire sheet was covered in algebraic equations, which changed little by little all the way down the page. There were notes in the magins, and in between the equations. They said things like "Trgt too low", "Imposs", "Wrong %", "No such trgt", and one, very cryptic "June '98". He set it down carefully and snagged the one in front of Molly.

The title was "NC M/O & Trgt List". In tiny handwriting under it was "Recent as of 10/31/09". It took him a second to realize what the title meant as he scanned down the list. There were four columns, headed "Date", a mysterious "M/O", "Trgt Val.", and "Succ."

"Date" was obvious. The date of whatever happened.

"M/O", that was confusing.

"Trgt Val"- shorthand for something. Target Value, perhaps.

The "Succ." column was thin, and the lines were either blank or had a check mark. Most of them had a check mark. Success, probably.

As Neal Caffrey put the sheet down, a different one caught his eye. Headed "PB Capt. Time", it was covered in numbers and equations like the first sheet. This one, however, was less organized. It was scattered, almost random. One date at the bottom was circled over and over in red ink. Neal recognized it.

As the day Peter finally caught him.

"Molly…" Neal touched her good shoulder lightly. He expected her to wake up. He did not expect her to draw a gun out of her sling and point it at him.

(Oh, I love cryptic clues. Don't you?

I am SO sorry for not updating. I went to a hockey game about 200 miles away, then an art museum. But anyway, excuses schmooses.

Question: Speaking of guns, what caliber did Peter say killed Paul Ignazio in the episode "BOOK OF HOURS"? This one is tough!


	6. Chapter 6: Enemies

Chapter 6

Molly's eyes weren't all the way open, but the gun was absolutely still.

"Molly… what's going on?" Neal raised his hands slowly. She blinked twice, squinting at Neal.

"Shit," she commented. The gun clattered onto the wood of the table. She muttered the curse again quietly, rubbing her eyes with her arm. "I'm sorry, Neal. Thought you were a- someone else."

"Who?" Neal pushed the gun out of her reach gently and sat on the table.

"I can't tell you." Molly rested her head on the table again like she was still tired. She carefully avoided his eyes.

"Can't, or won't?"

"Pick one, Neal. You've got enough enemies. The last thing you need is mine." She stood, picking up her sling.

"What are you talking about?" Molly looked down. Her back was to him.

"Your enemies are mostly rivals- they want what you've stolen. Mine want to kill me." She struggled with the sling. "Stupid FBI agent."

Neal laughed and reached out to help with the clip in the back. "I would agree with that statement, but what does it have to do with talk of enemies?"

Molly turned around. "Did you look at this stuff?"

"Molly, don't change the subject," Neal ordered. She brushed past him to shuffle through the papers one-handedly.

"Too late. Come on, Neal, did you read my papers?"

"Molly!" She turned around. "What does Peter have to do with it?"

She clenched her jaw for a moment, then spoke slowly, haltingly. "Before… he got to you… The only people that had a problem with you… were rivals. Other thieves. They didn't like you… for the competition. Now…" Molly shook her head. "Now people think… that you're a snitch. I can think of five people off the top of my head that would…" She swallowed. "…pay to see you dead. Ten that would love … a _talk_, and not the kind… the FBI does."

Neal froze. People thought he was a snitch. Logical, he was working with the FBI. But, still, Molly blamed _Peter_?

"I know…" she laughed shortly "-everything, but I know that it was your… idea. I don't blame you. You wanted- want- to find Kate. But you… would be a lot better off if… he had left you there."

Left him there? In prison? For another _four years?_

"Thieves' honor, you know." She rolled her eyes. "Stupid, but… some people believe it. And… serving for what you've been caught for… that's part of it. Escaping is… great, I mean, it's the stuff of stories. Escaping for love- even better. But…"

'Stuff of stories'? 'Thieves' honor'? Where was this coming from? This wasn't like Molly. She bit her lip, closed her eyes. When she spoke again, it was even slower than before.

"You've got… a lot… of enemies. Because of what you've done. And I blame… Special Agent Peter Burke for… a little over half of them."

Neal just stared at her. There were too many questions, too many arguments, too many comments… He hadn't been speechless in ten years.

"I'm sorry, Neal." She turned away, sorting the papers. "I'm sorry if that isn't what you want to hear. But-"

"How can you say that?" He finally exclaimed. "How can you say that about someone you've met three times?"

She locked the papers into the rings of the binder and produced a small, manila envelope. It was stuffed with pictures. There must have been at least thirty. There were crime scene pictures, with bits of crowd in them. There were several that were building surveillance stills. Two were what looked like survey pictures. All were labeled with date, time, and location in white permanent marker. All had at least one circle around a face. All had either Molly, or Molly and Peter.

"I'm the watcher from Spain, remember?" she commented sharply. "I've seen the way he treats you. I've seen the way he treats his colleagues. He's a bastard. And the worst part is… I wouldn't have a thing against him… if it weren't for you."

"I thought you said you didn't blame me. I thought it was all his fault," Neal quoted just as sharply.

"Don't try to turn my own words against me, Neal Caffrey!" Molly snarled the words, snatching the pictures back. She shoved the envelope into her pack before turning back. "Don't make me think I was wrong."

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" Neal nodded towards the gun. She laughed.

"I wouldn't do that to you, Neal." Her smile was sarcastic, but the tone in her voice was genuine. "Him, maybe I would. Plenty of sniper perches in New York City." The woman pulled out a spiral-bound notebook and dropped it on the table.

She slung the pack over her good shoulder and moved for the front door. Neal blocked her way.

"I think you're forgetting something." He nodded back at the notebook and the gun.

"Consider them a gift. A consolation prize, if you'd like. Now get out of my way." Molly shoved past him. All he could do was stare at the table. She paused in the doorway for a second, and looked back. "I'll see you later, Neal."

It sounded more like a threat than a promise, at least at the moment.

* * *

Question: In the episode "THREADS", what did Neal ask Lauren when he found out she was an FBI agent?


	7. Chapter 7: End

She never came back.

Neal got a beaten cardboard package one day in the mail.

The return address was that of some woman in Ireland, Siobhan Aislyen.

Inside was a small photo album and an envelope.

There were nine pictures in the album.

One was of Molly, dark hair flying in the wind as she leaned on the railing of a ferry, not paying attention to the camera.

One was of Molly in a cab, grinning happily in contrast to the gray skies and brown hills behind her.

One was of a bar, its neon sign Gaelic.

One was of Molly and a blonde woman, laughing and posing in front of the bar.

One was blurry and dark, of Molly and a strange man talking at a table.

One was of a gun, lying on the pavement of a road. The bar's sign was reflected in a puddle.

One was a gravestone, the name unintelligible.

One was a fuzzy crowd shot, people all dressed in black.

One was of Molly.

Dead.

The envelope held a single sheet of lined paper.

"_I got recruited at fifteen. They found me in the back alley of Berlin where I ended up after losing the group I went to Germany with. He made me think I would be doing something good, helping him catch criminals. Stupid._

_I left home six months after I managed to make my own way back from Germany. I made my first contacts and my first mistake. Charlize and Ben Ludwig took me under their wing- wings? Charlize taught me the stuff I missed out on in real school, and Ben taught me the… other things._

_He approved my request to ship out after only a year, on one condition- I had to get rid of my identity and make myself a new one. Between Ben's coaching and Charlize's support, I disappeared into Alyssa Marivette._

_A year later, Alyssa was dead and I fled to Egypt as some Arab transplant whose name I don't even remember. Egypt turned into Malaysia, which turned into Australia, which turned into a long, long time in Canada. I met Jamie there in Montreal, only eighteen at the time. We ended up in Ireland together, my first big job. Molly (my first time working as Molly) turned into Carla from Russia, who turned into Janna from the Netherlands, who turned into Fiona from Venezuela._

_Then one day twenty-three-year-old Aeesha from Dubai got a phone call and vanished in the middle of a tracking maneuver for a former RAF captain that the boss wanted. I end up on a flight to Germany within half an hour._

_He wants me to follow someone. A very specific someone. Someone named Neal Caffrey._

_I did it. You were… fascinating. Crazy. Charlize sent me a huge algebra book to spend my spare time with, and then I decided to put it into work. I wrote everything down and turned it into numbers. I tracked down contacts and found everything I could from your past. And yet the boss wanted more._

_I found out why after two and a half years. He wanted me to kill you. I refused. He threatened. I yelled. He sent someone after me. I ran._

_It's been four years now. I protected you from him._

_If you're reading this, I'm dead._

_Best of luck, Neal._

_Peter will help._

_Goodbye."_

((

Welcome to the real world.

This was intended to end differently, but I hated the ending- it was a happy ending, and it didn't fit. I couldn't write it. Just couldn't.

Thank you for reading.

Goodbye.

))


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